Losing the Game
by barus
Summary: Sherlock/Irene. Spoilers for 2x01. This is a story about Sherlock saving Irene Adler's life and what happened next. I just had to write my own version. I don't know why Irene is still not in Characters category... Enjoy! Btw. Rating may change...
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! This is my new story about Sherlock and Irene and I know I should be working on my other ones to finish them but I feel that any other woman is not special enough to capture Sherlock's attention it that way and I'm also full of impressions from the SiB, so I just had to write this.**

**I don't own Sherlock or Irene, neither any of other characters. It all belong to ever magnificent A.C. Doyle and brilliant Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**

The City of the Bright Lights or a Gateway to Pakistan, as some calls it.

A tall man in his mid-thirties descended from an airplane on Karachi airport and breathed in the heavy-scented night air. He had a turban on his head which shadowed his eyes, so you couldn't tell his exact eye colour. His face was covered with a thick dark beard and he had a small suit case in his hand. His clothes were white and covered him from head to toe. Anyone with any deduction skills would say a Muslim businessman who just returned from a trip to Toronto.

The man passed through the passport control - according to his passport he was a certain Aban Raheem. He then proceeded to collect his luggage. Interestingly his suitcase was the first one to emerge on the conveyor belt – something that never happens to ordinary people. He purposefully strode to the exit door and hired the taxi. He made an impression of someone who knew this area very well and who had been there many times before. The taxi stopped in front of an expensive-looking hotel in wider centre of Karachi next to the one of city parks. The man got out and headed to the hotel entrance.

"As-Salamu Alaykum." he greeted.

"Wa alaikum As-Salam." The receptionist replied.

„I have booked a double room for one night. The name is Aban Raheem. My wife will be joining me shortly. We don't want to be disturbed and we will leave quite early in the morning." the man continued in heavy accented English. The receptionist searched the database and looked at the man's passport and when satisfied he gave him the keys. Such businessmen as the one in front of him were common guests in the hotel and so he didn't notice anything amiss.

"Have a nice stay, sir."

A woman in traditional Muslim clothing was dragged across the courtyard to the area lightened by several reflectors in front of a military-looking lorry. Several men with rifles gathered around her. One of them separated from the group and stood in front of her to film the execution. The woman who had caused to their brothers in Europe many troubles, who knew things about them that had never been supposed to escape outside the organisation, was to be beheaded.

She eventually managed to persuade them to let her write one last text message. She wasn't angry with him or with herself anymore, she was just resigned. And this was something she felt he deserved to know. She knew he would immediately know what the text meant but the purpose wasn't to hurt him. Just to let him know. Perhaps she even hoped that he wouldn't forget her… What a wishful thinking that was.

She handed the phone to the nearest terrorist and felt rather then saw a man with a machete in his hands to approach her. She closed her eyes. This was the end and yet she couldn't bring herself to regret falling for him, even if the result was her death.

An erotic moan was heard from somewhere on her left side and she opened her eyes in surprise. This couldn't be…

She turned her head and immediately recognised the eyes of the man with a machete.

"When I say run, run!" the man whispered and then turned on his heal and swung the machete to cut the nearest terrorist across his abdomen.

The woman let herself feel the wave of relief and a small smile appeared on her lips before she too jumped at the nearest terrorist. She was never the one to sit by and watch.

**So, what do you think? Please, review it makes me continue to write more and I would really want to finish this:)**

**Also I feel that here, I can fully express what's been weighing on me for some time. I think that Sherlock and John are NOT gay and I always thought so and I'm so glad that SiB and Stephen Moffat with Mark Gatiss confirmed it too. Don't get me wrong - I have nothing against gays but Sherlock and John just are not and it bothers me that almost every story in here is shipping them together and what is more interesting that not even Sherlock and John are gays but even Mycroft and Lestrade and sometimes others too all in one story. It is a strange universe in which 4% are cumulated in one place.**

**Forgive me for this outburst but I felt that here was the only place where I could actually express this opinion because it would be weird to write this in reviews of other stories - even the SLASH ones, because there is a usual warning "Don't like, don't read",so...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi everyone, here's the next chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it...**

This time the Muslim businessman entered the hotel with a woman by his side covered from head to toe, so that no one from the passer byes was able to see her face. The receptionist barely lifted his eyes – she was apparently the wife that he had been talking about.

When the door closed, Irene sighed in relief and carefully sat on the leather couch near the window. Her body was still hurting from the beating and torturing and although she usually enjoyed this kind of stuff she preferred different circumstances and perhaps gentler hands. This was way too much even for her. She looked up at Sherlock perhaps for the first time since he rescued her. He was pulling out various things from his suitcase in hurry and his face was as dispassionate as ever.

She couldn't help but wonder why. Why did he save her life if he didn't care? Or did he care, in fact? She had thought so but then when he cracked the code in her camera-phone he just left her to her fate without a backward glance. During the length of their acquaintance there had been times when she had been able to read him as a book even when others couldn't have and times when he had been an unreadable enigma but that night in Mycroft's house he wore a mask that even she hadn't been able to crack. But now… he was here and both her head and heart wanted to know why.

_Here comes a challenge_, she thought with a smirk.

"I like the beard," she spoke after a few minutes of silence, "it makes kissing rougher."

"It's false." Sherlock pointed out without looking up.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes. I'd be gentle." Irene smiled.

Her smile however vanished as soon as she moved to sit in a more comfortable position and accidentally leaned on an injured arm. She carefully placed it on her lap when suddenly there was another hand that gently took her injured one.

Her breath caught in her throat and she was sure he noticed it. She cursed him for having such an effect on her. His fingers were soft and warm, barely touching her when he rolled up her sleeve to feel the bone.

"It's not broken." He said quietly after a minute and then finally looked into her eyes.

"Where else have you been injured?" he asked not moving his gaze away from hers. His eyes were searching, trying to penetrate her barriers and she found it impossible to look away. She was unable to distinguish any emotion in his eyes because she was trying very hard not to give away hers and it was becoming harder with every passing second. She finally looked down and immediately felt the fog rising from her mind.

Then it hit her. Sherlock was playing. He was playing a mind game with her and she just lost. Again. She looked up in time to see the smirk on his face as he was getting up.

_Damn the man!_

"I think I might have some bruises on my back and there is a deep cut on my thigh. Do you want to look?" she got up too and in one swift movement removed her Arabic clothing.

Sherlock stood motionless looking at the top of her naked body and not an inch lower, stony expression on his face. He had seen her like this before and therefore shouldn't be surprised. He could do this, he told himself. But suddenly she stood right in front of him and he felt that strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. The one he felt only twice before – both times with her this near him.

"Will you not check the cut for the infection? I don't think the knives of the Pakistani terrorists are regularly disinfected, do you?" she whispered and sat on a nearest chair with her legs apart so not only the cut was on a full display.

She could see the muscles on Sherlock's neck tense and his face became even more impassive. But he didn't lower his gaze.

"Oh relax, Mr. Holmes. I'm wearing knickers. You can look down, you know." Irene tried very hard not to smile as she saw a glimpse of relief pass over Sherlock's features. He bended down and without a word examined the wound.

"It's not…" he cleared his throat. "It's not infected or deep. All it needs is a clean bandage." and with that he quickly rose to get one from the first-aid kit in the bathroom. Was it just her imagination or was his voice slightly husky? _Interesting!_

When Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom he was his usual collected self without any hint of emotion on his face.

After bandaging her leg he packed some things to his bag and headed to the balcony.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock wasn't surprised that she knew he wasn't just going to get a bit of fresh air.

"We need to fake your death. And this time it must be done thorough. Because _they_ will be thorough too." He said as he climbed over the banister. "Especially Mycroft," he added to himself.

"Do you think you can fool him?" she asked stepping on the balcony too.

"Oh, I know I can," Sherlock smirked and jumped on the pavement below. "And if I can fool him then teh rest of them is just a piece of cake… Get some sleep!" he called from the dark where he had disappeared a moment ago.


	3. Chapter 3

She saw Sherlock disappear in the darkness and returned back to the hotel room so that she wouldn't be seen by any prying eyes. The room now was empty and dark and she suddenly wished that she went with Sherlock or that he stayed with her. She had been elated when he had suddenly appeared and saved her, she had felt almost giddy from all the adrenaline that rushed into her veins during the fight and the following escape. Now it was being slowly washed away and all that remained was a strange feeling that she had felt very scarcely in her life – her nature itself forbid it. Emptiness? No, loneliness? No, she chastised herself for such thoughts. She would be fine and Sherlock would be fine too, wouldn't he. Was she worried about him? No, she had never been worried about anyone in her entire life because she had never cared enough. _I care enough now._ she thought; however, she wasn't exactly the fussy type. She would only slow him down, she told herself. She was tired as it was, without any additional excitement and probably running that would definitely occur if she went with him.

Still, it was all coming back to her now. All those months of running and hiding and the last two weeks when she had been captured by Pakistani terrorists and thought she was going to die took its toll upon her. She hasn't slept and eaten properly for some time and this strange mood was the result of it, she was sure. She briefly wondered how Sherlock was able to function properly without it.

She decided that the best thing she could do was to take a bath and sleep. She saw Sherlock's open suitcase with some of his clothes and for a brief moment her usual playful mood returned. She hesitated just a second and then grabbed with a smirk one of his shirts and headed to the bathroom.

When the bath was full of hot steaming water she dived into it and immediately regretted her hurry. She had forgotten how bruised certain parts of her body were and the water stank like hell.

"Damn it!" she cursed out loud and grabbed tightly the edge of the bath. She felt tears in her eyes which only caused that she cursed herself even more. She wiped them angrily and with one movement sank under the water before she had a chance to think better of it. It took several seconds before her body and her bruises got used to the hot water. She scrubbed herself as much as she dared without hurting herself even more and stepped out of the bath. She found one of the towels, wrapped it around her hair and dried herself with another. Then she took the Sherlock's shirt on and it actually made her feel a little better. She looked into the mirror to examine her face. It was strapped of all make-up but she knew it wasn't the only reason why she looked so alien to herself.

The last several months and the last two weeks especially taught her many things about her and added her a few wrinkles on her face. She splashed her face with cold water rubbed her hair with the towel and let them fall loosely around her face.

Bed. That's what she needed right now but she wouldn't sleep. She would wait for Sherlock to return.

It took Sherlock almost the rest of the night before everything was to his satisfaction. He didn't want to take any risks and knew that every mistake could be fatal.

When he climbed over the banister back on their balcony he looked around and allowed himself to breathe out in relief. He stepped quietly across the threshold to their room assuming that Irene would be sleeping and he wasn't mistaken. She was lying stretched across the bed facing the door to the balcony in one of his shirts and she was soundly asleep. Sherlock couldn't help but smile a little. The Woman was now lying here, sleeping like a baby in one of his shirts. _She looks so peaceful_, Sherlock thought. _Oh God, what king of thought is this?_

He took a sharp intake of breath and thought that perhaps a cooling bath would be in order. It wasn't over yet. They still weren't safe and he needed to keep his mind sharp and unaffected.

The problem was that he knew he was affected bute didn't know to what extent. He cared. A lot – that much was obvious even to him; although, John thought that he hadn't been able to recognize it. But it wasn't love. Love was just a chemical reaction and he didn't do that. It would mean losing and that was not his intention. He couldn't afford that. Still, he cared. What else? She intrigued him and fascinated him, he mused as he let the cold water run down his body. But that was something he had discovered long ago. Did she attract him? He thought of her naked body tonight and had to admit that she made him feel something… stirring… inside, something he felt only when solving a particularly exciting cases… Yes, she did attract him.

"But there is more…"he sighed. _What more?_ His mind was working overtime to determine what exactly it was that he was experiencing. This is exactly why caring is not an advantage, a thought crossed his mind. _Mycroft was right, but the strange thing is that I don't want to feel differently_.

She mattered. But she mattered a great deal more than just being alive or not. He had known that for certain tonight as she had shrugged down her clothing and he had seen the bruises on her back. Her nakedness had been distractive but not enough and he had felt a wave of anger built inside him. It had been like when Mrs. Hudson had been hurt only intensified. He turned off the water and dried himself with a towel.

_Time to think about other things._

He lay on the sofa and pasted three nicotine patches on his forearm. Her regular breathing was strangely soothing and soon he was completely absorbed in thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, here is the next chapter and I'm going to sleep. I have to apologize for the mistakes I've made it the last chapter (I know about them) and I will correct them ASAP. I hope you won't think this chapter too much OOC. **

**AND thank you all for the beautiful and kind reviews. It keeps me writing:)**

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><p>It was beginning to dawn when Sherlock pulled himself from his thoughts and contemplations. It was time to catch their plane. Irene was still sleeping and he was aware that she probably needed much more sleep than that but staying alive was about priorities.<p>

Irene felt someone shaking with her and heard a voice. The reflexes learned over the recent months kicked in. She abruptly sat up and grabbed the person's hands before she was fully awake.

"I should've known you would use violence when in bed." The voice that had been talking to her said matter-of-factly. Sherlock. She was safe. "Old habits die hard."he remarked with a smirk.

All that had happened last night returned to her and she relaxed but didn't let go of his hands.

"What time is it?" she asked. "It must be awfully early."

"Yes. We have a plane to catch." He extracted his hands from hers and got up. "Put your clothes on and remember that until we get to Toronto your name is Yalda, the wife of Aban Raheem and you are accompanying your husband on a business trip."

Now, that was interesting. This little piece of information fully woke her. She searched his face for any emotion but it was impassive as was his voice. _Too impassive_, she thought and smirked. _He doesn't feel comfortable with this. _

"And who is this Aban Raheem?" she asked with an arched eyebrow and made a step closer to him while slowly unbuttoning his shirt that she borrowed.

"Really, I thought that was obvious." Sherlock replied without looking at her. He busied himself with packing his suitcase but she knew it was just a pretence to make him appear nonchalant. "It seems you're losing your edge when you're hungry and sleepy."

"Perhaps," she smiled indulgently. "but you should tell me otherwise I might get it wrong and kiss someone else." She made another few steps closer with the shirt completely unbuttoned and exposing her breasts but not entirely.

Sherlock seemed to ignore her, sitting on the edge of the bed zipping the suitcase.

"What would my husband say to that?" she said in a mock horror. "He might think I'm not a respectable woman." She leaned over him to grab her Arabic clothing.

"You're not a respectable woman." Sherlock said in a deep voice, his breath tickling her neck while she was leaning over him a little longer than necessary. God, she loved this. She loved the way he made her feel. She loved him.

"I'm not, am I?" she smiled with her eyes still on him and sat down, so her naked thigh was touching his. "Shall we have dinner tonight?" she whispered into his ear.

Sherlock still wasn't looking at her but she heard him exhale sharply and his eyes closed. _Oh my God, he actually wants me_, Irene thought in surprise. She felt the stirring in her stomach and her pulse took up the speed. She leaned closer and kissed lightly the soft spot under his ear. Her lips touched him just for a brief moment but it was enough for her to feel his pulse and it was certainly very elevated. She moved her hand to lightly rest on his cheek and turned him to face her.

He slowly opened his eyes and finally looked into hers. There were so many things it them that Irene wasn't able to distinguish one from another but she knew that this was Sherlock without his mask. He was the most vulnerable she ever saw him and yet she didn't know what she was seeing.

Sherlock didn't know either. She was so close and with every inch getting closer the battle was harder. Her eyes were almost dark and what he saw there made him feel the now familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. Was this love? He knew that she loved him, didn't he? Then why was he so taken aback? Why this reaction? Her eyes were serious and Sherlock knew she wasn't playing anymore but he realized that neither was he. He felt her hand gently brush across his cheekbone and one corner of her lips twitched upwards. _Oh, she's thinking about the first time we met_. He couldn't help but smile a little too. He gave into the immediate urge and lifted his hand to touch her face. He had never touched anyone in this way before and when his fingers lightly brushed along her jaw it was so new and exhilarating that his hand was trembling slightly. He slowly ran his fingers down her neck and felt quite satisfied when she parted her lips and her body arched a little. _Interesting_, thought the ever-analysing and now very little part of his brain. The urge to take her now and there was excruciating but he made himself to pull away and stood.

Irene came back to her senses when Sherlock stood and she felt a twinge of disappointment. She tried to mask it while she was taking her clothes on but she could feel his penetrating gaze on her. She heard rather then saw him sigh and say in a deep, quiet voice: "We really have to catch that plane, Irene."

She looked up at his use of her first name. He had never called her that. Did it mean something? His gaze was unreadable and somehow searching but unusually gentle for Sherlock. "Come."

And she felt a gentle press on the small of her back as he led her out of the room.

She stopped in front of the door and turned around with a teasing smile. "Shall we have dinner tonight then, Sherlock?" she arched her brow.

"Hmm, we are supposed to get one in the plane to Toronto, so I suppose, yes." He smirked and she understood it was a challenge.

She smiled and bit her lip. "I take your word for it. Dinner can be eaten even in a plane." And with that she went through the door and down the corridor.

Sherlock chuckled and hurried to catch up with her. _The Woman_.

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><p><strong>So? Let me know what you think. A review will hurry my update:)<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi everybody! Thanks for all the fantastic reviews and for your alerts. It made me to write another chapter instead of learning for the exams:) I don't blame you:) I hope you won't be disappointed by the lack of action but I felt that the time hasn't come yet. I will try to update next chapter ASAP but I REALLY need to do some things for school, so I'm not sure when I manage.**

Feelings. It was something he didn't do because it confused him and distracted him from his work. It wasn't as if he wasn't able to feel or care he just chose not to be bothered. It was easier. Feelings had no logic – that is – they had no logic for the one who felt them. As an outsider, Sherlock found them perfectly logical and clear. As an insider, it was a bit more complicated. It didn't help that people around generally annoyed him and that he had actually never found any girl at least slightly interesting. They were all so silly and slow and they fortunately lost their interest after a few words from him (carefully chosen for that purpose) and so it happened that he had never had any romantic relationship – not that he had wanted to, thank you very much. But now here was Irene and feelings had crept into his heart without his permission. For months it had confused him and distracted him but with every passing second in her company he was closer to the end of his deductions.

Now, in a plane to Toronto with Irene by his side he was very close. He felt he was almost there and the thought excited him and scared him in the same time. He liked solving puzzles and he was determined to solve this one too, only would he lie to himself if the conclusion wasn't to his liking? No, he wouldn't besides it surely wasn't _love_.

_Sherlock Holmes in love? What nonsense! _He thought disgusted_._

There was a tiny voice in his head that told him how he could know if he had never been in love, but it sounded too much like Mycroft so he pushed it away. Then there was another tiny voice that told him he was enjoying it despite himself but this time it sounded too much like John and he pushed it away too. Instead he focused his attention on the sleeping woman beside him.

She was again dressed as a Muslim and all that could be seen was her face. He decided that he liked when she was sleeping because he was able to watch her and think without her knowing. And so he kept watching her for several hours while trying to decipher the nature of his feelings for her.

"You're like a cat."

Irene's voice interrupted his train of thoughts but her eyes remained closed. Sherlock decided to ignore the remark; quite sure that she would explain what she meant or fall asleep again.

"Cats do this. At least mine used to." Sherlock's interest was picked by a slightly triumphant tone in which the words were said.

"Do what?" he asked in a bored voice.

Irene smiled. "Stare fixedly at their masters while they sleep." Sherlock looked ahead in case she opened her eyes.

"I wasn't staring at you."

"My cat used to be quite persistent. She used to keep doing that until I woke up."

"I wasn't staring at you."

"I always felt her gaze."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"I wonder if rubbing under your chin would work for you too. Would you mind if I propped against your shoulder, this position gets a bit uncomfortable."

Irene didn't wait for his response and rested her head on his shoulder rubbing it slightly to settle comfortably. Sherlock stared ahead with his mouth slightly open, his body tensed. This woman was absolutely impossible. She had never been this close, her body had never been touching his so fully and the most distracting thing was that her hair was right under his nose and he could smell the scent that made his insides stir with pleasure.

If he had looked down at her face (which he hadn't because he would get even closer), he would have seen a small smile on her lips. It took him full half an hour before he allowed his body to relax again. Irene had fallen asleep and he decided he could do this. He sighed and unfolded the newspaper he had intended to read during the flight. _Look what we've got here…_

For another half an hour he amused himself with correcting grammar mistakes in the papers, reading between the lines and solving the criminal cases that the newspaper wrote about.

Precisely when he started to be bored, Irene's head slipped from his shoulder and was in danger of ending in his lap. Sherlock awkwardly caught her sleeping form and gently propped it against his chest, all along wishing that she would not wake up. He thought with a chuckle that now she unintentionally achieved exactly what she had been trying to since the last evening. Her whole upper body was leaning against his upper body and one of his arms was circled around her waist to keep her in place. Strange thing was that it wasn't entirely unpleasant and he was getting rather used to this new closeness. He had to admit to all of his sex that there was something about a beautiful woman in one's arms. No, he corrected himself frowning, there was not, except when said woman was one Irene Adler.

**Please review and let me know what you think. Is it too much? Is it believable and wasn't there too much thinking and babbling? Thanks for reading and have a nice weekend!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys! First I want to apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. First, I had to study for the exams and then I wrote this chapter but wasn't quite satisfied with it (the expectations are high) and wanted to change some things but I actually had to learn some new songs and then I was so tired and exhausted that I didn't have time to rewrite it until now. So here it is. I hope you will like it and won't be disappointed.**

**We're finally getting somewhere...:)**

**Anyway, thank you ALL for your beautiful and kind reviews - they mean a lot to me and they keep me writing. If you have any questions or suggestions or just thought, write to me, because I love to hear from you, guys!**

As the flight continued, Sherlock started to contemplate the way how to extract himself from his predicament. He didn't want to give Irene the satisfaction of finding him thus yet extracting his hand would surely wake her. Besides, it wouldn't make up for the fact that she had spent half of the flight propped against him. No, it required somewhat more drastic measures. He inwardly smirked at the thought but it was in that moment that the steward serving the dinner chose to approach them. _Too late…_

He opened first Sherlock's table and then Irene's one and put the trays with the food on them.

"What would you like to drink, sir?" he asked in a loud rehearsed tone.

"Tea's fine." Sherlock replied in a deliberately hushed voice hoping that the steward would catch the meaning.

"Excuse me, sir," the steward leaned forward and raised the volume of his voice. "I didn't catch…"

"Tea!" Sherlock hissed inches apart from the steward's face. He was sure that Irene would wake anytime now, thanks to the idiot's shouting.

"Tea." Steward repeated.

"Tea." Sherlock smiled ironically.

The steward breathed in to say something - probably to ask what the lady wished - but then he saw Sherlock's face and thought better of it.

"Very well, sir." He smiled nervously and wheeled the trolley down the aisle. Sherlock forced himself not to roll his eyes and looked at the incriminating tea.

Irene shifted slightly her position on his chest but didn't wake. _Wait! Her breathing's changed_…

To any outsider Sherlock would seem unaffected by this discovery. He was slowly sipping the tea; although, he didn't touch the food on his tray.

He waited until both their trays were taken away and then he pointed out: "You've missed the dinner, Miss Adler."

Irene smiled and opened her eyes. "I had two options, Mr Holmes. Either to have a quick and probably not very warm dinner," she turned in his arms to face him, "…or to be in your very warm" she ran her hand across his chest, "…embrace," Sherlock swallowed. "…enjoying the feeling of your tight muscles and your delicious scent."

Sherlock found himself holding his breathe and when Irene finally pulled away, he didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed. He shifted in his seat and unfolded the newspaper again pretending to read them. He congratulated himself on being a better pretender than John.

"Though, technically you didn't miss the dinner." He said after a moment.

"I'm sorry?" she turned to him with raised eyebrows.

"We're flying eastward." He stressed the 'd' in the end and turned to another page.

The airport in Toronto buzzed with noises of many people from different parts of the world and it took some effort for Sherlock and Irene to get to the toilets where they could change from their Arabic clothes. It wouldn't do to walk around and attract unnecessary attention with their exotic looks.

Sherlock was already waiting impatiently, when she finally emerged from the ladies wearing tight jeans and jacket. She still looked very elegant but perhaps a little less first-class-stylish-icon, which was good because from now on she would have to keep a low profile.

"Finally. What took you so long?" Sherlock muttered with a frown and screened her from head to toe.

"So, what's now?" she asked ignoring his whining – because it couldn't be called anything else.

"Hair?" Sherlock asked in disbelieve and then laughed.

"You ran for your life, yet you've got time to do your hair. Interesting…" he sounded rather… in awe? Since they had left the terrorist cell in Karachi, she hadn't seemed much afraid.

She smirked. "You're with me, Mr Holmes, why should I be afraid?" she said as if she could read his thoughts.

"I assume you've got already a new life planned for me." She continued.

"Oh, please," she said as he raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't take all the trouble to save me if it was to let me go on my own, unprotected, again." Sherlock raised his eyebrow even higher.

"We're going to get you a car." he finally said and started in the direction of the departure hall.

It turned out that Sherlock had already bought her a car and it was waiting for them in the car park. The car wasn't new, but it was well maintained – a not very large model suitable for a young single woman, who didn't want to stand out in the crowd. An exact opposite of Irene.

Sherlock opened the boot and put there his suitcase and when he turned to walk to the driver's seat, Irene was already waiting there with an outstretched hand. He pretended not to notice and strode to his original destination. He was a little disconcerted; however, when he saw a smug smile on Irene's lips.

"The keys, Mr Holmes."

"Whatever for?"

"I'm going to drive."

"No, you're not. I'm not a suicide."

"I think you are, dear."

"I like to be in control."

"So I've noticed."

"I paid for the car!"

"It's on my name."

"Yes, but you don't know that name yet."

"True." she stretched. "But I could always call the police and tell them you robbed me of my papers, keys and wanted to steal my…" she paused suddenly looking over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock turned around and ran his eyes over the crowd of people in the direction of her gaze, analysing them in the process. Finally his gaze stopped at the man wheeling a suitcase and heading their direction.

_Mid-forties. A sportsman - probably shooter - a handgun or an airgun – airgun more likely. British! Now, that's interesting. Participated at least once on Olympic games and won. Hmm. ..Unmarried and single. He loves exotic animals – probably as a would explain his recent return from India. Strange cane, he has. Gambler? Yes… On a business trip but not because of the shooting…Oh. But yes, it is because of it. Dangerous._

He didn't have to ask her if she knew him. It was clear enough that she did and that he knew her too. He didn't wait for the man to notice them and crashed his lips against Irene's trying to shield her in the process from the man's sight. He briefly wondered why of all the solutions, his brain offered him this one as the best. He felt her arms slip around his neck and her lips moulded into his. Her whole body was pressing into his arms and her hands moved to ruffle his hair. A few seconds was enough to make his body react to her proximity in a way it hadn't reacted in many years. _Traitor. _His hand moved around her waist to pull her closer and the other held her head close. His lips parted letting her tongue to brush across his teeth. He inhaled sharply fighting for some control over his body. He must have passed them by now, surely…

Thankfully, Irene pulled away a little and asked in a breathless voice: "Is he gone, Sherlock?" _So, we're on the first name bases again…_

"Yes, he's gone." He said in a deep voice still inches from her face. But his brain was working again, praise the Lord.

"Quick thinking. I knew I would be safe with you." She attempted a light flirting tone but she seemed affected and her face was slightly flushed – something he didn't think possible. He felt quite smug.

He stepped out of Irene's personal zone and straightened his jacket.

"You know him." he stated trying to mask that he was affected _too_.

"Yes… Yes, I do." she smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. "And so should you!" she added seriously.

"That cane…" he mused.

"Of course, you caught that…" she smirked joylessly.

"It's not a cane."

**So, who was it? Anyone? But of course, you know:) review and let me know what you think...**

**Btw. I'm not sure how soon I'm able to update again - I have another exams and I will probably have to study, but I still hope I manage to find some time to write...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello, everyone! First, I would like to apologize for the long delay - I had exams and I really needed to study for them. They are behind me now and so I was finally able to update. I hope you like the chapter as much as the previous ones and to make up for the long delay I will try to update one more tonight - no promises, though. It all depends on my brain.**

**And second, I would like to thank you all for your kind reviews - they really made me to return to this and hopefully finish it. I would especially like to thank Stardust From The Planet Gallifrey (it won't let me write the name properly, whyever not?) for her kind reviews and messages and encouragement and most of all patience. This one's for you:)**

**Btw. If you haven't read her story "Rome is Burning", than you are seriously missing something!**

**Enjoy! X**

In the end it was Sherlock who got to drive the car. While Irene was still recovering from the shock of seeing Moran here of all places and Sherlock kissing her, he pushed her to the passenger seat and by the time she emerged from her thoughts they had left all the planes far behind them.

Sherlock seemed to know exactly where they were going and his eyes were focused on the road. Irene watched him intently for several minutes before she decided that now was as good time as ever to confront him about the Why. She simply needed to know why.

She took a breath and was about to ask him about the thing that had been on her mind for some time now and that his actions and looks during the past forty-eight hours had been suggesting when he spoke:

"So, who was that man? Clearly you knew him… intimately…"

Was it just her imagination or did he actually scowled a bit?

"I knew what he liked." she smiled but the words weren't delivered in her usual playful tone.

"Clearly." He looked at her sharply. "But then it didn't go well, did it?" he was looking at her intently trying to read behind the mask she wore.

"Watch where you ride, Mr. Holmes!" she chastised him and wasn't sure if she meant the road or the train of his questions. However he wouldn't be lead of his current path.

"So it didn't go well." He stated. "What exactly didn't go well? Certainly not your skills in bed, no one ever complained, did they," he smirked. "What could have gone wrong that caused the trained killer who was supposed to be on your side suddenly go against you?"

Irene turned her head from Sherlock's penetrating gaze. This was part of her life that even she didn't like to think about again. But Sherlock was pressing her still:

"It had something to do with emotions; something happened and he reacted on impulse – he looked like a very impulsive sort of man," Sherlock nodded to himself, "– perhaps he is calm when aiming his targets but not in real life. Now, why would he turn against you? Your… company was clearly quite pleasurable for him, I'm sure. Besides," he waved his hand, "no doubt you had something to use against him on that sweet camera-phone of yours. Why would he risk a scandal or worse and turn against you? Emotions, impulse…" he fell silent for a moment and then continued in a calmer quieter voice: "He fell in love with you but you, of course, didn't reciprocate his feelings. Perhaps he felt played with. He was angry and acted on impulse and once he started he couldn't stop."

She was still quiet.

"Did I get anything wrong? Who is he?" his tone betrayed only a slight impatience. "I, of course, know that he is a sportsman, a shooter to be precise – quite a good one, too. British, smoker and all that dull stuff I deduced but I want to know more – the things I can't deduce…"

Irene looked at him with a smirk. "So, you admit that you can't deduce everything…?"

"Oh, God." he sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Sebastian Moran. That's his name. "

She looked over at him to gauge his reaction and indeed there was one. Confusion.

"Does it supposed to ring the bell?" he asked sceptically, his eyebrows raised.

"It should. He is one of our top sportsmen – quite a celebrity, actually." she smirked. "Won the Olympic Games last time. I think that many girls have his posters hanged above their beds."

"Obviously, I am not one of those girls. He's a killer – that much I was able to deduce – a dangerous one but… who is he?" he accented the last words, clearly annoyed that she still wasn't answering his questions.

"Oh, c'mon, Irene, don't behave like a school girl! Did I get it right?"

"Almost." she finally replied - to which he scoffed. _Almost!_

"What di- ?" he started, annoyed.

"It wasn't love." She interrupted him. He raised an eyebrow.

"You were right. Besides being a famous sportsman he is also a killer. A very good one. He is quite impulsive and his tastes are impulsive in all other aspects too, if you know what I mean. He is also very proud and has quite a big ego – and being a celebrity makes it even bigger. He takes what he wants, no matter the consequences." she laughed humorlessly. "Many of those girls paid for their naivety."

"However, neither am I one of those girls." she continued. "And while in bed I might have given in to his whims, I'm not used to be compliant outside, as you noticed." She paused to give him a playful smile.

"He wanted me as a trophy, to own me. As if someone might possibly own me!" she snorted, "It was only his lust and hormones. I let him know that I wasn't interested in anything but business. I perhaps humiliated him a bit and he didn't take it easily. But he deserved it. I don't usually have much compasion for other members of my sex but when I did what I did I felt like their avenger." She smiled.

Sherlock gave a laugh.

"I hurt his ego – quite a lot actually. I was very naughty…" she smirked at the memory.

"He has a very short temper and frankly, he is just mad." Sherlock snorted. She was the one to talk. Irene shot him a dark look.

"He tried to kill me several times – unsuccessfully, of course, but once it was a very close call. He is very dangerous, Sherlock."

He observed her in silence as long as the traffic allowed him and then stated softly:

"You're afraid of him."

"I am. He is awfully great shooter."

"How come I've never heard of him?" Sherlock asked arrogantly.

"How come you've never heard of Jim Moriarty until a year ago?" she shot back.

"Oh, that's diffr…" he abruptly stopped and slammed on the brake, the red light hanging above them warningly. He was breathing heavily but the reason for that had nothing to do with the traffic. It cost him a lot of effort to calm down and he eventually said:

"It was him, wasn't it? It was Moran… He introduced you to Moriarty. That's how you got in touch with him." His face was impassive yet pale.

"Yes," she sighed. "Yes. That's why you've never heard of him - Moriarty keeps him safe, because he is one of his best killers. He has a brain, that's why. He's not stupid, yet not clever enough."

"Then why are you afraid of him?"

"Because he is daring and determined…" she said softly.

"Is that all?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Yes. That and the cane."

"Tell me about it. It's not a cane, is it? …It's a rifle." He stated finally.

"Yes, it is an air gun. Very quiet and very lethal. It has an unusually long firing range yet it is very quiet. Quite a handy thing."

"Interesting." Sherlock rubbed his hands. "Go on…"

"You go on, dear!" Irene smirked. "Green."

Sherlock too had noticed the green lights and he started up and turned to the right, heading out of the city.

"I hope I'm not going to live in some awfully remote and dull village!" she looked at him alarmed.

"Relax! Your house is still in the suburb." he smirked to himself.

"Good." She smiled.

"Now, where were we? The air gun, I believe." He prompted her to continue.

"It was custom-made in Germany – that's all I know. And in the hands of a good shooter..." She shrugged her shoulders.

"... it can be quite dangerous, I imagine." Sherlock finished for her.

"Yes. You never even know when the bullet comes." she looked at him intenly. "Be careful there, Sherlock!"

"Dull." he answered automatically.

"I assume that it's made of a material that enables him to travel with it by plane, it looks like a cane after all…nothing uncommon these days when you know the right person..." Sherlock mused. Irene knew better than to interrupt him while he was thinking and so she let him to his thoughts and looked out the window.

"Well, I guess I'll be quite safe _here._" she said as she looked around at the quiet neighbourhood and the row houses.

"Yes, that is the point." Sherlock remarked as he locked the car.

"Tell me, why didn't you ask Moriarty for protection?" Sherlock finally asked something that had been nagging at his mind. "I'm sure he would still find you quite useful."

"No, he wouldn't, besides, I would have to work for him and I don't work for anybody, you know that."

"Indeed." he agreed quietly. He had know that she was a very proud person even when it came to saving her life. "Why wouldn't he found you useful any more?" he asked when he remembered the first part of her sentence.

They were standing alone on the street, near to now Irene's car and she sighed and turned to look down the road.

"Because his biggest aim now is to harm you as much as possible and then kill you, Sherlock." she said softly not looking at him.

"Oh," was all he said because he understood. She never seemed more beautiful to him then right now.

After a moment of observing her observing the street he schooled his features and started in the direction of the door with golden numbers 221 on it. Irene turned to go after him but stopped and looked incredulously at Sherlock. Than her lips slowly spread into an amused smile.

"I would so decipher _your_ key-code!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock smirked. "No, you wouldn't."

**Please review and let me know what you think - I know this has been very uneventful chapter but I promise that there will be some serious things happening/ words being spoken in the next chapter.**

**Also, please, if you'd be so kind and feel like it, include in your review an opinion on Sherlock's assumed virginity (and perhaps why you think so?).**

**Here is my reasoning: If he ever had had sex, Mycroft would know, wouldn't he? And it's asexual Sherlock after all but; he definitely tried many kind of drugs - I think just to see what it would do to him - so, wouldn't he also try sex? Just out of curiosity...**

**What do you think? What is your opinion? :))**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi! Here is the next chapter. Thanks for all your amazing reviews and opinions:)**

**It took a great effort to write this chapter and it left me a bit confused - don't know why... another chapter probably won't be until Sunday - I have some family & friends obligations (though they are not really obligations, of course:)**

**Btw. It looks that perhaps I will have a beta, so all the annoying mistakes should be gone - but it's not certain, so we shall have to wait and see...**

**Enjoy! X**

The house was as the car had been – that meant it was perfectly suitable for a single ordinary woman in her mid-thirties who had to keep low profile. It wasn't large – there was a small kitchen and a dining room with a connected living room downstairs and upstairs a little more spacious bedroom and a study were located. One small bathroom downstairs and one larger upstairs together with a small hall were all the other rooms in the house. Then there was a small backyard behind the house – currently not very well-kept. The house was completely furnished with some quite old furniture but with some newer pieces too – not all of them completely unusable according to Irene.

Sherlock was studying Irene the whole time she was scanning the house and when her expression remained unreadable he became a little nervous.

"Obviously, the house will need some fresh paints and new furniture, but there should be enough money on your account and I," Sherlock fidgeted a little, "I figured you would like to furnish it yourself – just nothing too shiny, please" he added. He remembered the dark wallpapers in her bedroom in London and the showy living room.

Irene finally smiled. "I'll go for something classy." She turned around and surveyed the whole room with a beautiful fireplace, not very tasteful but easily replaceable wallpapers and finally two large French windows and a glass door leading to the backyard.

"It'll do. Some of the furniture is not completely hopeless – yes. I think it'll do very well, indeed." she smiled to herself. She would have something to occupy herself with for some time at least and she enjoyed furnishing a house as much as buying new clothes. Both were about style.

"I'm going to take a bath." She called from the bathroom to Sherlock who had just returned with his suitcase. She heard him rustling with a zipper. "Care to join me?" she asked matter-of-factly.

She knew he would probably ignore her offer and therefore was surprised when he appeared in the bathroom. She raised her eyebrows questioningly and regretted that she was still fully clothed.

"I brought you a clean towel and a robe – you will find some other clothes in the drawer next to your bed. A friend of mine living nearby owes me a favour." He added to her quizzical expression and abruptly left. Irene sighed. He really wasn't giving in.

Sherlock was giving in more than Irene knew. He felt his resolve slowly slipping away and there were emotions that he didn't quite know what to do with. During the whole day he needed to concentrate on the task at hand – them getting safely to Toronto, not being recognised and therefore he was unconsciously putting off the inevitable realisation. For the first time, he wished that John had been there, so he would tell him what to do. This was really not Sherlock's area. Not at all. The worst thing was that he had no way of fighting against those chemical defects in his brain and had no idea what to do with that annoying tension in his body that screamed for release. No, that was not true, he had a fairly good idea what to do but that would mean losing and he wasn't willing to lose it just yet. He groaned inwardly and collapsed dramatically on the sofa near the fireplace.

When Irene finally emerged from the bathroom she found Sherlock sprawled on the sofa with – oh, God – five nicotine patches on his forearm, flexing his fist as he held his breath. Then finally he released his it with a soft moan as the nicotine ran in waves through his veins.

Irene was no fainting girl, but she felt her knees positively weaken at that sound and she swallowed hard. She didn't know for how long she was standing there watching Sherlock's chest rising heavily but finally she managed to tear her gaze off of his form and started to the backyard to get some cool air.

The moment she tore her gaze off of him, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her retreating form. _Well, well_… It seemed he wasn't the only one losing control. Somehow the thought was strangely gratifying.

It was quite a while later when Irene felt the familiar presence behind her and his hand – this time with only one nicotine patch – handed her a glass with golden liquid. She accepted it with grateful nod but remained silent giving him the time he needed.

"We need to talk." He said in a deep voice. She turned her head to gauge something from his expression but it was impassive as always – _so Sherlock, _she sighed. His eyes fled to hers and something flickered in them for a brief moment and then it was gone again.

"Let's go inside." He stepped aside and let her come in first holdin the door for her - after all he had been brought up as a gentleman (and what would mummy think) - and followed her inside closing the door behind him with a silent click.

The fire in the fireplace was burning low and Irene sat down comfortably on one of the armchairs.

"First; here are your papers – ID, driving license and other necessary document. Here's your credit card." He then pulled a clearly new phone out of his pocket and explained. "I figured you would need a new phone too since your old one remained in Karachi. I took the liberty to pick one up for you."

His tone was neutral and matter-of-fact and she studied him for a moment before she looked down at her new papers.

"Sherlock! What's the… Ambrose? No way!" she looked up at him and his confused expression. Wait was it really so confused? And did she saw a slight amusement too?

"What?" he feigned annoyance.

"A family trait, it would seem – picking up the most horrible names." She said sweetly and Sherlock smirked. "If the situation ever arises, we shall stick to Hamish." That successfully wiped the smirk out of his face.

"No way, too Irish!" he exclaimed with a frown before his brain caught up with his words – for once not the other way around. "And I like my name, thank you very much." he remarked.

"It's as ridiculous as the one you picked for me."

"But Ambrose is a lovely name – it means immortal." His lips spread to a wide smile.

"How fitting!" she clicked her tongue sarcastically. Then she sighed because she knew that she had no choice either way. Today was a very long day and she felt emotionally exhausted and couldn't bring herself to waste the energy for petty arguments with Sherlock. He seemed to feel it and refilled the glass in her hands again from the bottle on the small table between them.

Irene looked at him with a tired smile. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Why would I do that?"

"To get me to bed!" she pointed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We both know that I don't need to get you drunk for that."

"True." she said quietly, her gaze never leaving his eyes. He was staring at her intently.

Irene raised herself from the armchair and put her glass on the table. No longer knowing if she was doing it on purpose or just instinctively, she came to him and slowly reached her hand to his hair, softly ruffling through it.

"Why?" she asked. He looked up at her and raised his eyebrow. He didn't pull away however, which seemed like a good sign.

"You will have to be more specific."

"You kept tabs on me, you flew to Karachi and risked your life, set up a whole new life for me. Why?" she breathed.

"Your mind is too precious." he said without the slightest hesitation the rehearsed answer.

"Oh, don't give me that crap, Sherlock!" she jerked her hand out of his her frustrated. "We both know better than that."

"Do we?"

"Yes, we do! What was it you wanted to talk about to me? My new _papers_?" she asked skeptically the last word almost spitting out. He immediately straitened and his eyes became even more cold and emotionless but Irene knew by now that it was his self-defense. Her anger subsided a little and her eyes softened.

"Why?" she asked again.

"And what do you want to hear?" Sherlock stood up abruptly, exasperated. "I'm leaving in a few days and we shall never see each other again. Ever." He paced the room angrily. His face no longer dispassionate as before but anger was OK, he thought. She could see the anger.

"There is no point in saying… things that won't even matter in the end."

"There is. Memories are all that is left in the end."

"What are you afraid of?" she asked after a moment of silence. It was slowly beginning to dawn upon her what the problem was.

"I'm not afraid of anything." He almost hissed with back turned to her, sulking. Irene had to smile to herself despite the situation. The sulking detective was a sight to behold.

She came closer to him and after a brief hesitation leant her upper body against his back and rubbed gentle circles on his upper arms. She propped her forehead against one of his shoulders and encouraged by his lack of action she quietly said:

"You are afraid of losing control over your mind and body, Sherlock, and I can understand that. But there is nothing to be afraid of with someone you trust."

"How…" he grabbed one of her hands, "…do I know…" he slowly turned in her embrace to face her, "…that I can…" he brought her closer to him looking piercingly in her eyes, " …trust you?" he finished huskily.

"You took my pulse, remember?" she whispered to him. "Take it again!"

But he didn't. Instead he leaned his forehead on hers and tried to resist the urge a little longer. And when he thought he had given it a proper fight, he opened his eyes and looked at her again, gently cupping her cheek. There was that look again – the one he gave her in the hotel room in Karachi. This time she was more prepared or perhaps he was less confused and she was finally able to recognize all the different emotions in his gaze that she now realized she had longed to see for many months.

In the end, the tension was too much for both of them and Sherlock finally leant forward and captured her lips with his. The sensation was even better than when he kissed her on the airport. Irene immediately started responding and she pressed tightly against him, her hands on his chest, caressing it across the soft fabric of his shirt. As her tongue slipped into his mouth he felt shivers run down his spine and his hand instinctively slipped down her back to her buttocks and drew her closer to him. Irene moaned as his hand rubbed her bottom and arched her body against his. This time it was Sherlock's turn to moan as he felt a wave of pleasure run through his groins.

They were kissing and caressing each other, memorizing each other's body because as Irene had put it 'memories were all that was left in the end'.

**So... what do you think? R&R, please...**

**It was somehow very hard to write but I finally managed but I'd appreciate some feedback, so I know it's not a total rubbish chapter...**

**Do you think Sherlock is ready?:P (-as one of you has put it...)**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Hello, everyone. First a huge apology for such a delay – I'm sure you've all given up on me but here's the next chapter – twice as long as the others with a hope that you will forgive me.**

**I feel I should explain myself – I had a huge writer's block and I simply wasn't able to continue. Then the school started again and then my work and I still wasn't rid of that block… in the end I knew – roughly – how I was going to continue, but I never found the time and energy to write it down. In the end, we all have to thank nataliet 9 who urged me to continue – that makes this chapter dedicated to her.**

**And now to the story; I know that you all will be disappointed that there isn't the sex scene but I really didn't feel like writing it – it was one of the reasons for my block. There is a huge leap in time and perhaps you will be disappointed about that too because of the lack of Sherlock/Irene but! Read on and you'll find out that there actually is quite a lot of interaction between them. The time between the last chapter and this chapter will be covered by flashbacks and memories, because I felt that the pace of the story was too slow.**

**I also apologize if you get some alerts for the previous chapters – I corrected some mistakes – especially the infamous "mussels" and uploaded them again – hopefully there won't be any alerts but if there are, I'm sorry for spamming you.**

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><p>Two months. It had been two months since Sherlock had left London and consequently England. Two months on the run.<p>

Originally, he had planned to get out of England for a while only because of the fuss that had been around his suicide. He had briefly contemplated staying with Molly (a way better than staying with Mycroft) but he had quickly decided than it would have been reckless and unfair to her.

She and Mycroft were the only ones who knew that he was alive and he intended for it to stay that way. That is, he had intended.

Someone besides Molly and Mycroft knew that he had survived. Someone he had almost forgotten about until he had seen his face in the window of one of the shops in St Étiens. And since then, he had been on the run.

He never stayed anywhere for too long and he used disguises as much as possible. Yet, he was very careful not to slip away from his pursuer's sight. He would have been able to escape him weeks ago if he had wanted to. He wasn't nearly as clever as Moriarty. However, his reasoning was that better being chased himself than if his shadow had been in London trying to kill John, Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.

It was after those two months that he suddenly found out he was no longer chased. He was quite sure it wasn't a trick used to lull him into the false sense of security. After a little investigation he found out that his pursuer had stopped chasing him the day before and everything was pointing to the fact that he had returned to Britain.

That was bad. That was the worst case scenario. Why would he return? It certainly wasn't because he had given up. It hadn't been a trick either. So, why? Something must have happened in London to make him return. Perhaps it had something to do with Moriarty's former network? Or he had changed the tactic and decided to go after someone close to Sherlock, hoping that he would follow him back. Too many possibilities, too little facts.

Sherlock cursed inwardly as he was getting on the plane to London in one of his disguises. He really had no other choice but to return back. Hopefully, the talk had died down a little, making easier for him to do his work, though he wasn't overly optimistic about that. He knew that he wouldn't be able to walk the streets of London without a disguise, but the chances that someone would recognize him were lesser.

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><p>When he got off the plane, it was raining. How typical but Sherlock actually rejoiced in that. He was back. It had been little over two months but he had missed England immensely. He was very careful to remain hidden in the crowd – this time he really didn't want anyone to recognize him.<p>

When he was passing through the arrival's hall at Heathrow airport, he very carefully watched for any signs that his pursuer had been waiting for him but found none.

However it was when he stepped out of the building that he found a familiar black car waiting for him. He mentally rolled his eyes and tried to pass unnoticed by Mycroft's assistant. His disguise as an elderly ordinary man was rather good in his opinion. Unfortunately, he hadn't fooled Mycroft.

"Mr. Berry! Want a lift?" a hand stopped him.

"Are you talking to me, miss? Because that's not my name." he croaked, pretending to be confused. "Do I know you?" he croaked again examining her closer. He decided to give her a bit of her own medicine.

"Yes, Mr. Berry. I'm to take you home."

Home. That meant Mycroft's place and information. He sighed and decided that the resistance was futile anyway. He looked around for the last time and got in the car.

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><p>Upon entering Mycroft's residence, he found his brother in his armchair in front of the lit fireplace with a glass of scotch in hand.<p>

Mycroft briefly looked up and gestured to another chair next to him.

Sherlock sat down comfortably and after a few minutes of silence he finally spoke.

"I take it you're not surprised I'm back."

Mycroft looked up and studied Sherlock for a moment. "Not after Moran's return." He answered coolly.

"Ah, so you _had_ someone following me." Sherlock felt slightly annoyed by that; although, he had guessed that all along.

"Yes, of course." Mycroft smiled coldly. "You tend to get into trouble, besides mummy insisted."

"You told her?" Sherlock asked this time really annoyed.

Mycroft only raised his eyebrows and eyed his brother skeptically.

"I have. And so would you, were the roles reversed. You wouldn't want to put up with mummy in such a situation... And don't look at me like that, please; she was worse than a harpy."

Sherlock fumed quietly but had to admit that he wouldn't want to deal with their mother either. Their mother loved her sons fiercely – for some unknown reason, Sherlock thought because neither of them was a particularly good son – but she was a true matriarch in the Holmes family. During all those years, not even Mycroft was able to find an effective way to contradict her or even lie to her. It was quite annoying sometimes.

Of course she would know if Mycroft tried to lie to her, besides Sherlock wasn't entirely able to dismiss the son's feelings for his mother and in the end he was glad that she wasn't made to mourn the death of her son. He accepted the idea that his mother knew and seated himself more comfortably.

"Have your people found anything useful concerning Moran?" Sherlock asked after a while.

Mycroft handed him silently one of the folders on his desk. Sherlock surveyed it briefly and snorted in disgust. There was nothing that he hadn't already known.

"You knew that already." Mycroft stated, slightly intrigued. Some of the information were rather top-secret. "How?"

Sherlock didn't answer instead he absently stared to the flames. Something in Mycroft's mind finally clicked and he simply said: "Ah!"

Sherlock looked up suspiciously. "What does it mean 'ah'?" he asked, frowning.

Mycroft smirked and handed him another folder from his desk, carefully studying Sherlock's expression as he opened it.

It took a great deal of effort not to curse out loud when Sherlock saw pictures of Irene in disguise dated few days ago.

"My agents spotted her a week ago outside 221B and then outside St. Bart's hospital. The next day they managed to photograph her outside the Dr. Hooper's flat."

Sherlock abruptly stood up and started to pace the room. This was not good. Not at all.

"My agents of course didn't recognize her but I have." Mycroft continued. "I admit I was somehow… irritated at appearance but what can you do…" he smile wryly, "it would take a lesser mind to deduce that she was looking for you. Apparently trying to find out if you were really dead, knowing that you already have experience with faking _someone's_ death."

"Stupid! Reckless!" Sherlock wasn't able to hold back any longer. It was the stupidest thing she could have done. Frustrated, he ran his hands through his hair.

It took him several minutes of pacing the room before he composed himself enough to sit down again. Mycroft was watching him the entire time.

Unexpectedly, he handed him a glass of scotch with a surprisingly sympathetic look.

"Four days ago she got on the plane to Washington. I haven't put the surveillance on her, seeing as no one besides me recognized her." Mycroft said grimly.

"Thank you." Sherlock said quietly, calming a little. At least, she was careful enough not to fly straight back.

"Don't thank me, Sherlock." said Mycroft with a somewhat guilty expression. "I should have." he sighed.

"What do you mean you should have?" Sherlock sat up straighter, suddenly alarmed again.

"We found out two days ago that Moran had returned. My people were, of course, keeping an eye on him since we knew he was after you – therefore he must have been one of Moriarty's men. Somehow he managed to escape them and we hadn't known until few hours ago that he in fact flew to Toronto."

Sherlock sat motionless, his mind in turmoil. He slowly closed his eyes to clear his brain. It took all his will to force his mind to work properly.

Mycroft had always thought that he had been able to read his brother really well. Yet when more than a year ago the need had arisen, he had found out he hadn't been able to read his heart. When, few days ago, he had found out that Irene Adler had survived, he had immediately made a connection. Still, he hadn't been entirely sure about his brother's motivation for saving her. Now, he felt that his brother's actions would answer most of his questions.

He eyed his brother warily. He was sitting in his usual position, with fingers making a triangle under his chin. Mycroft had already guessed what his actions would be and he wasn't mistaken.

"I'm going to Toronto." Sherlock announced quietly, not looking up.

Mycroft had known it but still… he closed his eyes and sighed.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." He said slowly, quoting himself. His voice was unusually compassionate. He hadn't used that tone with Sherlock for many years. Since Sherlock had started to be so resentful, he reminded himself. There had been happier years, when Sherlock had been but a little boy begging Mycroft to play pirates with him.

When Sherlock looked up at him from his chair now, he saw that little boy again. There was no resentfulness in his eyes.

"I have to." He said quietly, almost begging him to understand.

Mycroft nodded sadly and reached to his desk for an envelope.

"The ticket…" Sherlock held his gaze for a few seconds and then took the envelope.

"Thank you." And with that he stood up and left the room.

As soon as Mycroft heard the front door click, he dialed his assistant.

"Yes… I want Gary to keep an eye on him. There will be no one else involved… yes." Mycroft could be a very patient man but sometimes he hated waiting as much as anybody else.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, Sherlock was sitting in the plane to Toronto, deep in thoughts, trying to decide the best course of action. He went through the rooms of his mind palace, entering the rooms he had scarcely let himself enter. The ones were memories of Irene were kept. He needed to know all the information on Moran he could get and Irene had told him quite a lot. The problem was that with the information he had also unlocked the memories and they were like a fog in his mind.<p>

He had thought he would never see her again and he had carefully stored all the memories, so that he would never forget even the slightest details. And yet, here he was in a plane to Toronto. How could she have been so reckless, he asked himself again. But after the initial shock, he couldn't be really angry with her because deep down he knew that he would have done the same. That was the saddest part. Wasn't he after all sitting in a plane to Toronto, possibly leading others that had been looking for her closer? He sighed. Where was their resolution never to seek each other again now? They had agreed

* * *

><p><em>In the end he had stayed for the whole week. That was the most he allowed himself and he had been already afraid that he had stayed for too long. Yet Irene could be very persuasive.<em>

"_So you're leaving…" a voice came from the stairs. She was standing there in one of his shirts that she used for sleeping._

"_Yes, I have already stayed for too long." Sherlock answered trying to sound casual. _

_The truth was, he tried to sneak out while she was sleeping but it apparently didn't work. He readily admitted to himself that it was cowardly but then he had never been good at situations where the feelings mattered. Irene knew this and didn't say anything; she was simply watching him with slightly raised eyebrows as if challenging him._

_When neither of them said anything for a while she sighed and looked down._

"_This is goodbye then…"she said softly, almost to herself._

_Sherlock didn't answer but kept watching her._

"_We're not going to see each other again." she stated what they both already knew._

"_We've already established that. It would be highly risky." Sherlock finally spoke._

_Irene silently nodded and took few hesitant steps towards him. She touched the lapels of his coat and smiled but it didn't quite reach her eyes._

"_Won't you kiss me one last time, Mr. Holmes?" she asked trying to sound playful, but it came out rather strangled, tears finally forming in her eyes. She now understood why Sherlock had tried to sneak out unnoticed. This was harder than she had expected._

_She felt his warm hand wiping the tear that was rolling down her cheek and then he kissed her. He kissed her as desperately as she was feeling and then pressed her body tightly against his._

_The moment was all too short and he pulled away, grabbing his suitcase and heading to the front door._

"_Don't forget me!" she managed to call at his retreating form and he stopped but didn't turn around. She somehow couldn't bring herself to care that she sounded like an ordinary woman._

"_Never." he said quietly but loud enough for her to hear him._

"_Good. Because I will never forget you."_

* * *

><p>After several weeks of torment and contemplation Irene finally decided to go to London. It wasn't an easy decision because she knew she could possibly endanger more than just herself but she had assured herself that she would be careful. Besides she had never been one to sit by and watch and the uncertainty had been worse than anything. She knew that she was perhaps being stupid but she couldn't help herself.<p>

Yet, when she arrived to London she wasn't able to find anything that would suggest Sherlock had faked his suicide. Either he had been very thorough or he really killed himself but she still wasn't willing to accept that option. Unfortunately, she knew what Moriarty had been capable of and feared that perhaps he had somehow made Sherlock to jump.

She managed to get as far as to assume that if he had faked his death he would have needed someone's help. She then visited John – in disguise of course – and she went through some horrible minutes when she had found out that John did really believe that Sherlock was dead. Soon her rational part kicked in and she remembered Sherlock talking about a pathologist from St. Bart's who had a crush on him. What a coincidence. However, neither in Bart's nor in Molly Hooper's apartment was she able to find anything that would help her to find out what had really happened.

She stayed for two days and she knew she couldn't stay any longer. She returned home as uncertain and ignorant as she had been before, yet she still hoped that her instincts were right and Sherlock was alive.

* * *

><p>On her way home she took every possible precaution to eliminate the possibility that someone would follow her. She had recently found herself rather… paranoid – she grimaced at the word - therefore before she went to bed she checked all the doors and windows and put a handgun under her pillow. One could never be too cautious, she thought before she fell asleep.<p>

…

What woke her up, were noises of someone quietly opening a window and then stealthily sliding in. She felt the gun under her pillow and turned on the lights. In that moment a dark figure darted across the room and turned them off.

"Don't!" She heard a deep familiar voice when she wanted to turn them on again.

"And stop pointing that gun at me." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. She didn't even have the time to register the wave of relief that had washed over her before he hurriedly spoke again pulling her out of bed and making her to crouch. He led her to one of the windows.

"You are afraid of something?" She asked, stopping them both.

"I am."

"Of what?"

"Of air-guns." He looked at her intently. She immediately understood the implication.

"Close the shutters here and I'll close them downstairs." He instructed her. She could hear the tension in his voice. "Don's stand up, especially not in front of the windows. Close the shutters from…"

"I know, I know." She interrupted him. "Go." She pushed him towards the stairs.

* * *

><p>Sherlock ran down the stairs trying to focus on matters at hand. The overwhelming sense of relief that Irene was alive and well that he was currently experiencing threatened to distract him and he tried to push all the feelings aside. He managed to close the shutters downstairs and wanted to head back upstairs when in the absolute darkness he tripped over some object on the floor which upon the contact made a strange noise. He cursed and decided that the small light above the stairs won't hurt.<p>

Upon switching the lamp on he found out that the strange object was a colorful plastic caterpillar. He frowned and picked up the toy. It made the noise again. A rattle.

Sherlock's mind made a quick deduction and then went blank. He wasn't able to grasp what his reason was telling him. _That can't be!_

He slowly turned around and surveyed the living room with his eyes. It looked differently than he remembered but that was to be expected since Irene had apparently done some changes. He recognized her touch but it really wasn't what he was looking for now.

There. His eyes stopped on a stuffed teddy-bear. He turned his head and saw a blue wooden playpen. He went closer and examined it. In the playpen there were lying other children toys and he was trying to determine the age of the child that could play with them. He wasn't an expert on children but he deduced that the child wouldn't be older than a few months but already a toddler.

Sherlock closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. _Oh, God, what's happened?_

The question in his mind had been purely rhetorical, of course, because he knew exactly what had happened.

The day they had arrived to Toronto was a long and strenuous one. There had been tension between him and Irene the whole day and when it had finally snapped they hadn't been thinking about things like protection. They hadn't been thinking at all, he reminded himself.

Sherlock ran his hand across his face and sighed. Then he slowly started upstairs.

When he entered Irene's bedroom again, he found her sitting on the floor propped against the wall with a sleeping little boy in her arms. Four to six months flashed the deduction briefly in his mind. But of course he knew exactly how old the boy was.

He stopped on the threshold, for the first time in his life completely unsure of what to do.

Irene looked up and held his gaze. She had always been more experienced than him in situations of this kind and yet she didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to expect of him and prayed that he would say something. Do something.

Sherlock _knew_ that he should do something but he found himself unable to move or speak. He was just silently watching Irene with the boy and his brain was trying to process everything. This was something he certainly hadn't expected. There hadn't been anything, any clue at all that would prepare him for this outcome. Nothing ever indicated that Irene had born a child. _His child_, his mind offered. The situation was absolutely unreal and yet here was the boy with a mass of black curls and slightly more profound cheekbones than was usual in such a young age. There was no mistake that the boy was his son and he didn't need to see the boy's eyes open to know that they were the same color as his.

The noise of a window breaking brought them back from the trance.

* * *

><p><strong>So, I wanted to write more but it's six in the morning and I really need to go to sleep because I still haven't finished a project for school.<strong>

**Anyway, let me know what you think – wasn't it too OOC? I'm so tired I can't tell anymore.**

**Any suggestions?**

**Btw. I know I promised a beta but I found myself quite impatient to update, so… I'm apologize for any mistakes:/**


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